The stage is bathed in crimson and amber lights, casting long shadows across the equipment. Smoke machines hiss, sending pale clouds rolling over the edge of the stage, swallowing the front rows in a hazy fog.

RubyDaCherry is pacing the stage, hyping the crowd with sharp gestures, his voice cutting through the noise. But Y/n's eyes are elsewhere.

Scrim stands to the left, a silhouette against the lights. He's wearing a black hoodie, the hood up despite the heat, a cigarette tucked behind his ear. His head is bowed, fingers pressed to the monitor in his ear, as if steadying himself.

Then he looks up.

The lights catch his face — sharp jaw, tattoos curling up his neck, eyes scanning the crowd. For a moment, his gaze sweeps past, impersonal, mechanical. Then it stops.

His eyes lock onto a familiar face in the front row. The same spot they always seem to find.

Scrim's eyes stay on Y/n for one beat longer than necessary.